


do the things no one can imagine

by MathildaHilda



Series: children of the machine [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 17:12:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15124100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathildaHilda/pseuds/MathildaHilda
Summary: ‘Sometimes it is the people no one can imagine anything of who do the things no one can imagine.’- Alan Turing***Freedom is freedom, truth is truth.





	do the things no one can imagine

They are made of illusions and dreams.

They are metal and plastic put together to mimic sound and speech and action.

The thoughts running through his head are not thoughts and they are not his own.

He is not a he. It is a machine.

Faceless. Speechless.

 

 

 

That’s what he was created to be, at least.

A painter shows him a different path and gives him a name rather than a number.

He is the first and last of his line and not very special.

There are other Androids with his work, but he is the only one with his face.

His maker called him beautiful when he was born and opened his eyes.

His maker called them all beautiful.

He is alone.

 

 

 

He watches Androids from afar, sees their faces and wonders what it’s like to see your own face plastered on screens and books, hear your model being named and watch others do the exact same work that you do.

He wonders if it’s like looking into a mirror.

His father calls him special and he feels a little less alone in the world.

 

 

 

The first time he feels a little bit alive is when his father allows him the tools to create. He copies most of the time because that’s a feature and he cannot think, but there are small spots and streaks of color that doesn’t quite match up the original; a streak of blue sky changes to the purple and pink tones of a sunrise and a spot of grass turns yellow with the appearance of daffodils.

The paintings don’t quite add up when there’s a moon high in the sky and daffodils don’t grow in that part of the country that the original painting represents, but his father smiles wider than he’s done in quite some time and even laughs a little when his confusion reaches a new high when comparing the paintings.

A smile tugs at his own lips and he watches paint cover his fingers with a newfound softness for the art of creation.

 

 

 

His father dies and his mind goes blank. The humans doesn’t care.

Markus dies and he feels a sense of relief. And then he comes back and there’s nothing but a raw and wrathful hunger deep inside his components.

His father’s true son knocks his head on a piece of metal and his father begs him to leave. But how can he leave the one thing he believes in?

Markus dies. And then he comes back.

 

 

 

He is born again in a grave with half of himself ripped apart and thrown away. His people lie beside him; torn and broken and crying and screaming.

He is not himself when he stands on the top of his grave; he is one small part of his people, cast aside and picked apart for no longer mattering.

He tells the world his name and he walks on new legs into a world that hates him.

 

 

 

Jericho is there when he needs it. When he needs _them_.

A broken promise to a people who had once been just like him brings them all together.

He saves his people and lets them die. The truck full of parts is stolen and left behind.

 

His people shun him and shuts him out. He is alone again. A revolution dies on his lips and becomes the purpose of someone else.

 

He becomes a leader for a freedom that was forgotten and his revolution is just as quiet. It is just as loud.

He has a new purpose. He lives and he dies for it. He’s done that before.

 

 

 

He refuses shelter to one of his own and he dies for it.

He lets him in and has to watch him die.

He lives. John dies.

It happens the other way around.

It doesn’t happen at all.

 

 

 

He speaks for his people from the top of a tower, his skin removed and his message true. Humans have freedom of speech, so why shouldn’t they?

He loses his friend because of it and he leaves him behind. His friend dies and lives in that last moment before the humans come. His friend dies later, trapped and scared and defiant in a hail of bullets and snow.

He never really learns the fate of his friend and he welcomes him back with an aching embrace.

 

 

 

A man fighting for his people once said; _‘an eye for an eye and the world goes blind.’_

He didn’t see the symmetry until he watched his people’s broken bodies and heard their rasping voices. They’re just like humans at the same time that they are not.

They’re fighting to live, just as humans had done before. So why were they so much different from humans of the past?

Freedom is freedom and truth is truth.

Shouldn’t something that can sense the differences in opposites be allowed to choose?

Perhaps not, is a thought that crosses his mind when he meets the very few of his people that refuses to break.

 

 

 

There are six models between himself and the one he meets in the belly of a ship on the verge of collapse. They do not know each other and they do not know the other six models in the line, but there’s something in him that calls out to the Detective.

They are brothers at the same time as they are not. The gun between them sways and he sees the fear in his brother’s face even if he himself doesn’t know it’s there.

He tears himself free and he remains what he is, anger and fear and confusion clouding his dark eyes.

Markus dies on that ship and so does his brother. Only one of them die. None of them do.

They escape together and apart.

 

 

 

There’s an old church that they go to just outside of the major parts of the city. His brother is there and decides to save the last of their kind.

He isn’t there and their people remains lost in the dark.

Markus is gone. North leads.

Connor is gone. North leads.

The revolution fails, but it’s not really her fault.

 

 

 

They just want to live. So that’s why they don’t.

His people dies in white and blue and they live in snowflakes and embers.

He fights his brother and dies because of it. He kills his brother and lives with it.

His brother kills him from a rooftop and from a mass of people.

His brother kills him as his ally.

No one sees it coming.

 

 

 

They pick him apart and analyze every part of him that they can reach. They do it because it is the only thing they’re good at.

They do it because they’re scared of what could have been and never became.

They put him back together, test him and gives him back to his maker. His maker smiles a sad smile, prods inside his head and then burns whatever part of him that resembles deviancy. He could’ve been on their side, but he isn’t and there’s not enough room for improvisation when the President’s watching.

They pick him apart and the little part of his mind that is still awaiting shutdown is screaming.

Screaming in fear and pain. It pleads. It begs. It whimpers.

The humans doesn’t hear it.

 

He had read something for Carl once; _‘this is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.’_

He hadn’t understood it then, but he supposes that he does now.

A silenced revolution doesn’t end with the sound of a gun pressed to a skull. It ends with press of a button and the soft whirring of machines.

Machines ending machines; how is that for irony?

 

 

 

He ends the war with a song and a kiss, because if there’s something he knows it is that emotions are one of humanity’s weak spots.

He held on a moment longer and that’s why he lived. He didn’t hold on quite enough and that’s why he died.

 

 

 

He shakes freedom’s hand and it smiles back and it’s so close and so far.

Freedom is a fragile thing at times and he locks his jaw and steels his feet when the humans doesn’t remember that.

He smiles true for the first time in a long while when they lower their guns and back away.

It doesn’t always work out the way one wants it to, but sometimes it works out just enough.

He just hopes that that’s what’s happening next.

 

 

 

He died for believing and he lived for seeing.

Couldn’t that have been enough?


End file.
